The Price of Victory
by Grand Phoenix
Summary: No good deed goes unpunished. [An unnamed human hunter and a lightforged draenei paladin, during the Battle of Dazar'alor][pre-Dead Reckoning quest]


**Notes1:** Inspired by my first run through Normal!Battle of Dazar'alor on my blood elf hunter on the opening week of the raid. I had only managed to get as far as Rastakhan before the weekly reset on the NA servers (I skipped Mekkatorque entirely once I read the mechanics, and have yet to down the Blockade), but having to do the fight as someone who was changed into a human for the sake of the flashback portion of the raid left a bitter taste in my mouth. I like to think the human who took part in the King's downfall would feel like absolute trash - so badly the memory would stay with her for the rest of her life (barring the possibility all PCs are somehow made immortal if WoW ever shuts down).

**Notes2:** I think Rastakhan's a cool guy...but don't come here and tell me he died to pave way for a feminist agenda or Activision-Blizzard is on a crusade killing off anyone that oozes the slightest hint of badass (and with subjective opinion put into play and the fandom's collective paranoia that may as well be the Midas touch personified), that means Rocks Fall, Everyone Dies) due to some preconceived notion that men are the expendable gender, it's the AGE OF WOMEN now. Barring the obvious setup with Talanji's rise to the throne and locked into a bargain against her will, you just _KNEW_ the moment you met him and learned all but two people on the Zanchuli Council were feeding him bullshit throughout the years that _he was a dead man walking_.

I mean, you _could_ make a story where's he kept alive and Talanji dies in his stead (whether or not Bwonsamdi's deal comes into play is up in the air). You _could_ come up with a story (and someone has, there was a thread on r/wow a couple months back) where he comes to terms with his failures as father and king and butts heads with Sylvanas. But then I would sit back and think 'well, how long do you keep a character alive before they overstay their welcome?' or 'what difference would a story make if someone survives when they shouldn't have or dies when they should have lived?'. It's this thought that I had with Rhonin's death in _Tides of War_, the same thought that made me ponder what more Rastakhan could contribute to the plot alive, and it's the same thought I have with Saurfang now (if you want me to be frank, I would have Saurfang die; he's lived way past his time, and as much as I hate how memetic Zekhan's become he could always carry on the Horde's more honorable ideals - that is, if he makes it alive past the expansion). So while I understand where people are coming from when they say Rastakhan was cool...I can't agree on the assessment that he was 'wasted potential'.

My question is: Should it be considered 'wasted potential' because someone who looked badass died for the sake of plot?

**Notes3:** The human hunter and the lightforged draenei paladin are purposely left unnamed, but I find the thought of making Renya color-coded blue and gold to denote his allegiance to the Alliance to contrast Mishka's Banchou (a red and black quilen) quite funny. Even more hilarious because I have entertained ideas of a Mishka AU in which she's a Horde soldier loyal to Sylvanas...but Banchou is _blue and gold_ to show he's a hound of the _Horde_.

Also, while it's ultimately up to the reader to decide whether or not this is the case, the human hunter is about as close of an approximation you can get to an author self-insert right down to almost having the same physical appearance. But I was never one for self-insert stories, and I can't see myself surviving long enough to reach godlike, game-breaking status without getting killed one day in. It'd be such a crummy way to go.

* * *

"Dis power...dis death...it is not a blessing! It is a curse!" she heard the King suddenly cry, loud above all the fighting, as he was channeling dark magic in his hands for another spell. She had been far away from him, positioned in a corner that was not teeming with black-green rifts to the loa's realm among the other spellcasters and hunters, but she had heard him nonetheless.

She heard his voice crack in a sob."Oh, daughter...what have I done?" He raised his head at them, teeth bared in a snarl, ears flexed back against his head, the aura of death magic surrounding him flickering with his emotions. "WHAT HAVE I DONE?!"

She blinks. Shakes her head and looks around, seeing the throne room as if for the very first time. Swallows, tasting copper and bile in the far back of her throat, licks the sweat off her upper lip.

Several feet away, at the foot of the throne, lies Rastakhan's body—so still, so serene. No one would blame her if she thinks he's dead.

He's not. He breathes yet. Barely, faintly. Struggling. A quiet, strangling sound that's a cross between a cough and gurgle escapes his lips.

She pants with her mouth open, chest heaving.

_We did this,_ she thinks. Then, reeling as if from a blow, she corrects herself: I_ did this._ She puts a hand to her stomach, and her head spins as it rolls, harder and stronger, beneath her touch. _I should've stopped._ _I should've STOPPED._

But she didn't. No one did. Not even her quilen, Renya, relented from the combined assault. They resisted even more, pressed the King more and more into desperation that made him sloppy, frenzied, anxious to the point of demanding Bwonsamdi to grant him more, more strength, more power, why didn't that damn loa dispatch the Alliance sooner…?!

_Ya be livin' a long time, Rastakhan...too long,_ he said to the King, with a click of his tongue. _No king rules foreva._

_Dey resist! Dey impinge upon OUR kingdom! Do somethin'!_

_If ya can't be gettin' da job done,_ the loa continued gravely,_ then...maybe...perhaps dat pretty likkle daughter of yours will._

_Not 'maybe',_ she silently tells the loa, unseen but watching. Unheard, but always listening. _She _will_._

At the edge of her hearing, something whispers fleeting quick, in one ear and out the other. Her starts with a jump, breath hiking, heart stuttering. She dares not look around.

It almost sounds like laughter. Mocking, cruel, triumphant even in death.

Renya sees her and sprints up to her with a bark. He rumbles worryingly as much as a quilen made from magically-imbued blue and gold stone can sound, staring with wide, glowing eyes and a frantic wag of his tail.

There's blood and ichor on his snout and on his paws.

That does it. She flings her bow to the side, tears off her helmet and casts it aside, and runs to the far corner. She manages to make it before she crumples to all fours and retches all over the wall. Renya barks and chases after her; she ignores him.

Footsteps clack behind her, and her shadow is suddenly thrown into loud relief across the stones. She picks her head up, dizzy and filled full of cotton, blinking stupidly at the dim radiance lighting upon her armor.

"First time?" the Lightforged woman asks. If she is sympathetic at all, it's not apparent in her voice.

The hunter wipes her mouth with the back of one gauntlet and looks over her shoulder. The draenei towers over her, a marble statue encased in bronzed armor and lustrous sword and shield, with soft eyes and smooth features. She cocks her head at her, watching. Her expression doesn't change.

She sniffs through nostrils quickly congesting with snot, blinking through the tears that spill down her cheeks and over her lips and clenched jaw. "I just killed someone," she tells her shakily. "I just killed someone's _father_."

The woman shrugs. "That's the way of life. You'll get used to it."

"They're going to kill us for this!" she spits, and lists to her left when her arm trembles so bad it loosens her purchase and slips. She catches herself, pushes herself upright on the floor to twist around to look at the paladin. "They won't stop until we're all dead!"

The draenei shrugs. "So?"

"We weren't supposed to kill him, dammit! We were supposed to get him to surrender! The King said so!"

"What would he know?" she posits, not unkindly. "King Anduin is young. He doesn't yet realize you can't make peace with everyone without causing bloodshed. He'll learn, though—him and everyone who thinks otherwise. You should, too. Look." She holds the bow out in front of her and gestures at the specks of dried blood and ectoplasm where the undead vanguard threw themselves into the backline she was a part of. "This is proof of your deeds done in the name of righteousness. This is proof that you serve the Alliance. You have slain animals, people, and aberrations of Fel and Void with your arrows. You're no stranger to this, so why do you cry? Why do you mourn for Rastakhan? He served the Horde. You knew he was never going to back down. He's no more special than the people you've killed in self-defense."

"It shouldn't have come to this! We could've sent someone to-"

"To negotiate? To convince him he doesn't know what he's about to get himself into by working with the Banshee Queen?" The Lightforged sniffs contemptuously. "It was never going to happen. Wyrmbane knows it. Shaw knows it. Even Lady Jaina knows it. So long as he, his daughter, and the Zandalari allied with the Horde, the Alliance would never broker for peace. Why should we, after what Sylvanas did? Why should we, after everything the Horde has done?" The woman scowls down at her, eyes narrowed in disgust. "Do you seriously believe there's ever going to be peace?"

She moves around to sit on her haunches, one arm propped behind her, the other slung over her knees. She pays no mind to Renya coming to stand beside her; whether it's out of comfort and routine or out of protection from the woman, she doesn't know nor care. "Not everyone," she says, "is like Sylvanas. Some of them probably hated what the others did to the kaldorei."

"And yet they still stand with her," the woman says with a sardonic smile. "If they cared so much, they should've done something a long, _long_ time ago. Now? Now they're in it deep, my friend. If they could do it with Garrosh, then they can do it with Sylvanas. Those that claim they are honorable and noble are liars and criminals. Even though they say they do not wish to stain their hands with blood, in reality they're criminals—_cowards_, and it is their inaction to make a difference makes them no better than the warmongers we fight on the battlefield. They deserve to be punished. All of them. This is simply a step in the right direction."

"Is it?" the hunter huffs. "Because for all we know...this'll push them to join the Horde even more." She sneaks a glance to her left, past the woman, at King Rastakhan. Still on the floor, flopping like a fish beached ashore, gasping and choking. His hands beat feebly, fingers scrabbling along the stone.

She looks away, head spinning, stomach roiling. She reminds herself to breathe through her nostrils lest she succumbs again, and settles for glaring at the paladin. "Talanji will never forgive us for what we've done," she says, voice a little more steady now.

"I know," says the Lightforged, "and I don't care. We're here to end a war that should've been over and done with when Garrosh was overthrown. It's gone on long enough."

"And what happens to the Horde then? Dismantle them? Throw them in concentration camps and have the future generations pay reparations? Kill them all and conquer their lands?"

The smile the Lightforged gives her sends a chill down her spine. "If it means the Horde is no longer a threat to peace and to Azeroth...anything goes."

She stares at her. "You're crazy," she breathes. Then, more loudly, "You're fucking crazy! They're people! Some of them...some of them are probably conscripted! Maybe they didn't have a choice! They...they probably think we're the real threat! Not them!"

"If we're a threat, then how come every time we come off the heels of fighting an enemy of life and peace it's the _Horde_ that sparks the flames of war? The bombing of Theramore, then the sacking of the night elf lands, and then the Burning of Teldrassil…." The woman frowns. "If we're a threat, then what does that make _them_?"

She swallows dryness, senses more than feels herself recoiling from the stern stare directed at her.

"Well?"

She licks her lips, pushes up on one hand to sit a little straighter. It slips and sends her sprawling further backward. Her mouth works, trying to find the words. "Th-They-"

"Parasites," she announces. "Vermin. _Leeches_. This world is better off without them, criminals and liars alike." She puts a hand to her breast and throws her head, laughing high and gay. "Ah! I can't wait to see the looks on Talanji's face when she finds out all the things the Horde is doing under Sylvanas's reign! Her, and everyone else!"

"They won't leave because of that," the hunter says.

"No," says the Lightforged, and all the mirth melts away from her face and in her posture. "No, they won't. And neither will you. You're here to stay. You _have_ to; blood and war means profit, it means peace for all that is holy and good, and what better way to improve people's livelihoods than by dragging the simple and the poor from their homes to see those fruits come to bear?"

"But...I'm not-"

"It doesn't matter what you are. You've shed blood in the name of the King and in the name of the Alliance. Either you fight, or…." She trails off.

"Or?" the hunter parrots tentatively. Renya puts himself in front of her and, so low as to be almost a figment of her imagination, rumbles at the draenei.

She inclines her head behind her, where Master Mathias Shaw and King Greymane are directing soldiers and marines around the corner into the passageway that leads deeper into the Walk of Kings. The hunter barely catches a glimpse of the Lord Admiral appear and turn her attention to the men before she hears the woman finish, loud and grim as an undertaker, "Or you can join Saurfang in the Stockades and swap sob stories. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

"If I had the _choice_," the hunter growls harshly, "I wouldn't be _here_."

"When the world is one minute away from ending, where in anyone's right mind would they be but here, where we can stop it?" the Lightforged shoots back, gentle and cool.

They stare each other down.

The draenei holds the bow out for the hunter to take. Renya starts, then growls. He crouches low.

"_Renya_," his master hisses. She puts a hand on his flank and, though she doesn't push him, applies enough force for him to understand what she intends to do if he doesn't listen. He stays his ground.

She looks at the bow. Quel'dorei craft, blue and silver colors with only a shade of gold on its iconic phoenix emblem to denote its segregation form the Horde. She had picked it off the body of a Silver Covenant ranger on the Broken Shore, when the Alliance and the Horde made the ill-fated push toward the Tomb of Sargeras to put an end to the Gul'dan from Draenor who had been flung through the Black Gate when Archimonde fell, having lost her own in the midst of all the fighting. She's kept it with her ever since, even after the Ranger-General told her there was no need, she'd be honoring the owner's memory by carrying it.

A pang pulses beneath her breast. The old bow was very plain—almost painfully simple in its craftsmanship, no different than a trainee's bow, if she has to be honest with herself. Yet she had it on her for three long years, was present for when she beckoned the quilen out of hiding and earned his trust after spending days tracking his trail and keeping the tomb raiding saurok from catching wise about her movements each day she spent in the Vale of Eternal Blossoms. It had drawn blood before; magic and energy, as well.

What difference did it make if it was a beast, a spirit, or an elemental?

What did it matter if the person who died was a king and father?

Her lips press together. The familiar sting in her eyes and the pressure buildup in her nose return.

"Come," the Lightforged says. "Get up." She shakes the bow once—almost thrusts it in her face. In her mind, the hunter imagines herself snatching it from her hands: quick, brutal, efficient.

It's with shaking hands she takes it, clutches it to her chest, and makes the mistake of looking up at the woman.

She's already turning away, sword and shield drawn. Renya chuffs at her retreating back; she could just imagine him shaking his head if he were human. Then he gazes at her, hips moving with the force of his tail. He heaves a soft, quiet bark and gives her a light slap on the knee with a paw.

His master places the flat of her palm against his flank, slowly rubs it back and forth. He doesn't seem convinced, but he doesn't protest. He moves aside as she pushes up onto her feet, using the wall behind her for support.

She puts one uncertain foot in front of the other. Renya follows.

"You okay?" Lord Admiral Jaina Proudmoore asks the hunter when she's closer.

She starts, but when she sees who is speaking to her she calms down, all the tension and energy draining from her even more than the past few battles have done so. She can tell from the way she looks at her that she is word. Tired. Eyes bloodshot and dark, stringy hair spilling all over the place, not having had a decent shower since the fleet embarked for Zuldazar. If Jaina Proudmoore wanted to, she would tell her she'd been through hell and back.

She sucks on her lower lip and looks down at the gunmetal grey helmet Jaina just now notices. "Mmm...y-yeah," she mumbles. "I think so."

"First battle?" Jaina asks her, gently.

"N-No," the hunter says. "It's just…."

"Just…?"

The hunter turns the helmet one way and then the other, getting her thoughts together. She lifts her head and meets her gaze. "It never gets any better, does it? You think you're used to it...until you're not."

Jaina sighs. "No...No. It never does. But...I think, in a way, that's a good thing. To feel uncomfortable with what you've done. It reminds us that we are still human. However, there are times that call for us to steel ourselves and...do what needs to be done, be it if it's done out of what's right or—as you can see—as a last resort." She makes a gesture behind them; the hunter doesn't turn.

"We weren't supposed to kill him," she tells the Lord Admiral in a small voice. Her grip on the helmet tightens. "None of this is supposed to be _happening_."

"_None of us_ wanted this," Jaina rumbles, "but it was going to happen sooner or later. Inevitable, really, given who's leading the Horde. So long as she's around and the others follow at her beck and call, this world will never know true peace."

"And then what?" the hunters asks. "What happens if we win? What'll happen to the Horde?"

Jaina raises a shoulder in a shrug. "I don't know. Hopefully, when that time comes, the King will make the right decision. Too much blood has been shed as it is." Jaina turns and starts walking. "Come, champion. Our work here is done. We don't want to be left behind."

"...Yes, Lord Admiral," says the hunter, watching her go. She turns the helmet over and stares into the empty slits of the helmet.

On the other side of the room, Rastakhan starts choking.

Renya issues a low, raspy bark, runs a few paces forward, and stops. He spins around, staring at her, tail wagging.

She grimaces and all but shoves the helmet over her head. "Heel, Renya," she breathes, and runs the rest of the way across the chamber toward the passage.

She thinks she hears a word—light, dusty, like dandelion fluff, on a breeze that is night-cold and earthy. Damp, like morning dew.

It almost sounds like-

She bites her lip, drawing blood. Her heart races. Her head swims.

Her feet pound on the stone.

(The feeling stays with her, long after they're on the ships heading back to Boralus.

It stays for a long, long time.)


End file.
